


different as the sun and the moon

by brightroar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightroar/pseuds/brightroar
Summary: He knelt down and grabbed a handful of dirt. Realizing what he meant to do, Sansa made a feeble noise of protest for the first time since he pulled her from the crowd, but she held still and allowed him to smear the grime across her face. Yoren squinted at her. “Even with the hair and the dirt you look too pretty to be a boy. Ah well, we can tell them you were a whore.”-----AU where Arya is the one held hostage in King's Landing, and Sansa is the one who was taken to the Wall.





	1. Sansa I

“I’m sorry for this, my lady,” Yoren said as he sawed off the last long hank of her hair. The shining copper strands coated the churned dirt of the alleyway. Sansa stared at them, twisted some between her fingers. She didn’t know whether she would laugh or cry were she to open her mouth. 

Yoren took off his cloak and outer tunic, handing them to her and turning away. “Take your dress off and change into these,” he said gruffly. Cheeks flaming, Sansa did as she was told. The rough black tunic smelled of sweat and fell past her knees. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders like a blanket and cleared her throat to let Yoren know she was done. 

He knelt down and grabbed a handful of dirt. Realizing what he meant to do, Sansa made a feeble noise of protest for the first time since he pulled her from the crowd, but she held still and allowed him to smear the grime across her face.. Yoren squinted at her. “Even with the hair and the dirt you look too pretty to be a boy. Ah well, we can tell them you were a whore.” 

Sansa blushed. Her head was still spinning. She wanted to cry, wanted to sob and beat her fists against her head, wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Instead she just nodded and let Yoren lead her through the crowded streets. 

“I can’t treat you like a lady,” Yoren warned her as they make their way to the rest of the boys and men bound for the Watch. “And you can’t act like one. If you ain't careful, you'll end up raped. You got that?” Sansa nodded. “Right,” Yoren continued. “Now, what’s your name, boy?”

“J-Jory,” Sansa stammered. “Jory Waters.” 

“Good. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, Jory, and you’ll make it safely back to your family.” 

\-----

 

Sansa had ridden horses quite often back at Winterfell, but she had never ridden a donkey before. They were small, and smelly, and she had no saddle, but she dared not complain. Some of the men looked at her curiously, a few leered when they heard Yoren’s story that she had been raised in a brothel, but they mostly left her alone. 

The boys her own age, however, were a different story. They had taken her quietness and courtly way of speaking as aloofness, and liked to tease her about what they imagined her life had been like in the imaginary brothel. 

“I bet he’s a catamite,” said a boy named Lommy Greenhands. His friend Hot Pie giggled stupidly. Bolstered by the laughter, Lommy smirked and continued, “Probably let a different man bugger him every day.”

Sansa blushed and clenched her fists tighter around the reins of her donkey. “My mother was the whore, not me,” she retorted, but her voice came out small and weak. “I just lived there.” 

“Must have been a classy brothel ‘cause you talk like a little lord,” Hot Pie added. “Is that why you think you’re better than us, Jory? ‘Cause your father was some fancy lord who lives in a castle?” My father was a lord who lived in a castle, she thought. Trying to ignore them, she urged her donkey to canter a little faster. She felt a sudden stab of guilt for all the times she and Jeyne Poole had made fun of Arya, calling her Horseface. Now that she was the one being mocked, she realized how horrible her sister must have felt. Her eyes prickled with tears, and she wiped them roughly. 

“Look,” called Lommy excitedly, “He’s crying! Is that how you cried when--”

“Leave him alone,” said the tall older boy with the shaggy black hair who rode beside them. Lommy called him the Bull because of the horned iron helm he always carried with him and polished. Sansa was grateful he had stepped in-- Lommy and Hot Pie almost never made fun of him, no doubt intimidated by his broad shoulders and muscled arms. 

“Why do you care what we say to him? You hoping he’ll suck your cock if you’re nice to him or something?” Lommy sneered. He must have been feeling particularly brave that day, because he kept sneering even as the Bull scowled. 

“Leave us both alone, we didn’t do anything to you!” Sansa burst out suddenly. “You’ve been rude and nasty to me since we left the city for no reason at all! All I do is keep to myself and I’m nothing but polite to all of you, so if I’ve done something to make you angry, tell me-- just stop saying those awful things! _Please_.” 

Lommy and Hot Pie looked as stunned as she felt as the words came pouring out of her mouth. When she finished, there was a long moment of silence broken only by the thudding of the donkeys’ hooves on the packed dirt road. Then the Bull’s face split into a grin. When he started to laugh, there was a tickle of familiarity in the back of Sansa’s head that she couldn’t quite place. 

He rode closer to her and clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re right, Jory, they're just rude, nasty little boys. Let’s just ignore them till they learn better manners. I’m Gendry, by the way.” 

“Jory,” she said stupidly, though of course he already knew that. She blushed, then turned her face away so he couldn’t see and think that she _was_ some sort of catamite. “Thank you for defending me,” she said as Hot Pie and Lommy started to mutter behind them. 

“Don’t mention it,” Gendry replied. “They’re just jealous of you anyways.” 

Sansa smiled, and then gasped as something warm and wet hit the back of her head. She touched her hair with her fingers and wrinkled her nose when they came away coated in donkey manure. Whipping around in her seat, she turned to see Lommy and Hot Pie snickering, Lommy’s green-stained hands full of dung as he drew back his arm to throw again. 

Sansa halted her donkey and leapt to the ground, suddenly furious. She grabbed a fistful of her own off the road and flung it at Lommy’s stupid face before she could even think. She had been playing in the snow for as long as she could remember, pelting snowballs at her brothers and sister and her father’s ward. All that practice had given her a good aim, and the dung hit Lommy right on his open mouth. Sputtering, he let his handful drop to the ground as he used his sleeve to wipe off his face. 

Sansa scooped up more dung and lobbed it at Hot Pie, hitting him in the eyes. Shrieking and unable to see, he lost his balance and toppled sideways off of his donkey. Sansa ran over to him and shoved more shit into face, the way she once would have done to Arya with a handful of snow. 

“Stop! Stop, please, stop!” Hot Pie was howling. Sansa finally stood and wiped her hands on her pants, only adding to the grime that already covered them. Hot Pie sniffled on the ground, and Lommy was still hacking and spitting. Then Gendry began to laugh again. He laughed so long and hard that Sansa began to chuckle too, and then even Hot Pie and Lommy started giggling as they stared at each other, all covered in donkey shit. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yoren shouted as he rode by them. “Get back on your donkeys before I whip all four of you!” Sansa held out a hand and helped Hot Pie to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him as they mounted again. “But you started it.” 

“Yeah,” Lommy said grudgingly. He still had a little bit of dung on the tip of his nose. “I guess we’re sorry, too.” 

“Good,” Sansa said, and smiled.


	2. Arya I

Arya had been locked in her room for five days. 

The first day she did nothing but sob into her pillow, her mind replaying her father’s death again and again. The second day she screamed and banged on the door until the skin on her knuckles split and left bloody streaks on the dark wood. She spent all of the third day pleading with the guards, then insulting them, then cursing them with every foul word she learned from Theon Greyjoy and the stable boys back at Winterfell. On the fourth day, she tried to slip past her guards when they opened the door for the maids to come clean her and bring her food. Ser Meryn Trant caught her easily enough, and gave her a bloody lip on the way back to her room. 

On the fifth day, Cersei Lannister paid her a visit. 

The queen was beautiful, as always. Her deep green gown matched the emerald of her eyes, and her hair fell in loose golden curls down her back. Arya wanted to fly at her and rip those curls out of her head. Instead, she sat with her fists clenched in her skirts, wishing for the thousandth time that she had Needle. Not that she would have been able to do much with it-- Queen Cersei was accompanied by Sandor Clegane, his terrible burned figure looming behind her, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. _He would be happy for a reason to kill me like he killed Mycah,_ Arya thought, and clenched her fists even harder. 

“Gods, why couldn’t we have kept your sister?” Cersei sighed. “You’re too young to marry, and as willful as a wild horse besides. You’re not even pleasant to look at.”

“My sister’s probably with Robb by now, planning to kill you and get me back!” Arya burst out. Cersei chuckled mirthlessly. 

“Your sister was most likely dragged into the crowd of smallfolk and raped to death,” the queen said bluntly. “And more’s the pity. One less Stark girl means less of a ransom. I doubt you’re enough to get your brother to free mine.” 

_Jon Snow would do it, a hundred times over_. Arya knew that if her half-brother were here he’d kill Cersei and the Hound, then muss up her hair and call her little sister and take her back to Winterfell to see Bran and Rickon and Mother and Robb and even Sansa--

Arya was humiliated to feel hot tears pricking at her eyes, and even more ashamed to see Cersei’s look of pity. The queen sighed and rose out of her seat. “Oh well. We’ll bluff for as long as we can until we find her, and if not we can always ransom your father’s sword and his bones. They’re probably worth more to your brother than you, anyway.” 

The queen swept out of the room, locking the door leaving Arya alone again. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stood and climbed onto the windowsill, tearing down the curtains and pulling down the wooden curtain rod. It was longer and heavier than Needle, but it would have to do. 

“Ser Ilyn,” she whispered as she began to move through the familiar dance motions. “Ser Meryn. The Hound. King Joffrey. Queen Cersei.” Every time she jabbed and swung the rod she imagined driving Needle’s blade through their hearts.

 

\---------------

 

The first time Joffrey ordered her beaten, when he learned her brother Robb had crowned himself king, she had tried to fight back. Ser Boros just hit her even harder, his mailed fist driving first into her stomach, then cracking across her face. He hit her so hard she had spat out a tooth, along with a mouthful of blood. 

Every time after that she just stood and took every blow they dealt her. Ser Boros, Ser Meryn, and Ser Mandon Moore hit her the hardest, the first two almost seeming to enjoy it. Ser Balon Swann struck her more lightly, and Ser Arys Oakheart beat her almost gently, and even argued with the king once. The only member of the Kingsguard who never struck her was the Hound, but that didn’t stop her from hating him. _When I get Needle back I’ll kill them all_ , she vowed. 

Arya spent most of her time in her chambers, but sometimes Joffrey sent for her to make a spectacle out of her, telling her of how he planned to defeat Robb or pretending to interrogate her about things she didn’t know anything about. Once he even brought her to the wall where her father’s head was mounted on a spike, and she had nearly flown at him and pushed him to his death, but the Hound saw her fists clench and put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from doing something she’d regret. 

After her furious outburst at the queen the first time she had visited, Arya realized that if she wanted to stay alive she had to act less like herself and more like Sansa would. That meant being polite, doing what she was told, and keeping quiet. 

The dawn of Joffrey’s name day, Ser Arys appeared at her room to escort her down to the tourney being held in the king’s honor. Arya supposed it was just another excuse for her to be paraded around in front of the court, a skinny hostage covered in bruises. 

The crowd at the tourney was a pathetic sight, mostly made up of goldcloaks with a sparse sprinkling of lords and ladies. The Hand’s tourney for my father was much better, Arya thought with the smallest bit of pride. 

“Lady Arya Stark,” the Hound announced in his rasping voice when he saw her approach. _He_ had been the champion at her father’s tourney, she remembered. Maybe he’d ride today, and someone’s stray lance would catch him in the throat and kill him. 

“Your Grace,” Arya said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible as she dipped into a clumsy curtsy. 

“Oh,” Joffrey said lazily. “It’s the little wolf bitch. You used to carry around that tiny sword, didn’t you? Fancied yourself a knight? Maybe I should make you fight in the tourney.” 

_Only if it was against you_ , Arya thought. _I beat you last time, and I know I could do it again._ She said nothing as Joffrey laughed at his own jape. Little Prince Tommen bounced to his feet. “ _I’m_ fighting in the tourney, Lady Arya!” he announced. “Mother said I could!” 

Arya didn’t know how to respond to that. “Congratulations,” she told him. “I... I pray you fight... bravely.” 

Joffrey snorted at that, but otherwise ignored her until the first tilt was announced between Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Hobber Redwyne. Hobber and his twin Horas were the king’s hostages just like she was, as their house had sworn themselves to Lord Renly when he crowned himself king. Arya wished she could speak with them alone, perhaps to plan some sort of escape, but she knew it would never happen. 

Arya stared up at the sky, so numb to her surroundings that the next few tilts blended together, until a sudden commotion drew her from her reverie. A half-dressed knight ran onto the field in pursuit of his horse, pale skinny legs and manhood exposed to the gathered audience. Catching his horse by the bridle, the knight tried to mount, but the animal would not stand still and the knight was so drunk that his bare foot kept missing the stirrup. The watchers in the stands roared with laughter and shouted insults. Even Arya found herself biting her lips to keep from giggling... at least until she glanced to her right and saw the terrible expression on Joffrey’s face. The look in his eyes was horribly reminiscent of the way he had gazed at her father before demanding his head. 

Finally the knight-- Ser Dontos, she heard someone call him-- gave it up, sat down in the dirt, and removed his plumed helm. “I lose,” he shouted. “Fetch me some wine.” 

The king stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see him drowned in it.” 

“No!” Someone protested. Arya was horrified to realize that it was her own traitorous tongue that had spoken. She clapped her hands over her mouth but it was far too late. Joffrey turned to her, face twisted in rage and disbelief. 

“What did you just say to me?” he demanded. “You think you can give orders to your king? You, a traitor and a prisoner? I’ll see you drowned right alongside him you little bitch!” 

“That would be ill done, your grace,” the Hound rasped. 

“Fine, I won’t kill her, but I’ll see her punished for this, I’ll--” the king broke off, his eyes catching on Ser Dontos, who was kneeling pale and frozen in the dirt. Joffrey smiled. “Ser Dontos, I do believe I’ve found a suitable tourney partner for you.” 

Arya and Dontos gaped at him. Her head was spinning as she was shoved out from under the pavilion. The bright sunlight made her squint as Ser Dontos scrambled to his feet in shock. Surely he can’t mean it, she thought, even as a tourney sword was placed in her hand. 

“Fight,” Joffrey called from his seat. His cruel smile was ugly on his handsome face. “Fight until only one of you stands, but Ser Dontos-- if you lose the bout you lose your head, and if you win you’ll be executed for harming my hostage.”

“Please, your majesty--” Dontos pleaded, desperation finally clearing his head. “I didn’t mean to offend you--”

“Silence. I commanded you to fight, so _fight!_ ”

Arya didn’t know what he expected her to do, but her body moved on its own, sinking into position the way Syrio had taught her. Fear cuts deeper than knives, she thought, and a tourney sword hurts less than a real one. As she lifted her sword, her mind raced, trying to figure out a way to escape the fight with both her and Ser Dontos’s heads still attached. The crowd was dead silent as she swung the wooden sword, hitting Dontos on the side of his white thigh. The slap of wood on flesh jarred her, and the man yelped but didn’t strike back. Dontos’s face was bloodless save for the burst vessels on his nose, and he seemed resigned to his fate. “Fight me back,” she whispered. “Maybe if I yield he won’t kill you.”

Dontos huffed out a laugh. “I’m doomed no matter what I do,” he said, and lifted his own sword. Before he could use it, sounds from the gatehouse took them by surprise. Chains rattled as the portcullis was drawn upward, and the great gates opened to the creak of iron hinges. 

“Who told them to open the gate?” Joff demanded. With the troubles in the city, the gates of the Red Keep had been closed for days. A column of riders emerged from beneath the portcullis with a clink of steel and a clatter of hooves. Clegane stepped close to the king, one hand on the hilt of his longsword. The visitors were dinted and haggard and dusty, yet the standard they carried was the lion of Lannister, golden on its crimson field. A few wore the red cloaks and mail of Lannister men-at-arms, but more were freeriders and sellswords, armored in oddments and bristling with sharp steel . . . and there were others, monstrous savages out of one of Old Nan’s tales, the scary ones Bran used to love. They were clad in shabby skins and boiled leather, with long hair and fierce beards. Some wore bloodstained bandages over their brows or wrapped around their hands, and others were missing eyes, ears, and fingers. 

In their midst, riding on a tall red horse in a strange high saddle that cradled him back and front, was the queen’s dwarf brother Tyrion Lannister, the one they called the Imp. He had let his beard grow to cover his pushed-in face, until it was a bristly tangle of yellow and black hair, coarse as wire. Down his back flowed a shadowskin cloak, black fur striped with white. He was as ugly as she had remembered from Winterfell, but Arya was so grateful for his interruption that the sight of his bulging brow and squashed face were sweet to her. 

She wasn’t the only one happy to see the Imp-- Tommen and Myrcella both squealed with joy and ran to greet their uncle. Tyrion gave Tommen a hug and lifted Myrcella by the waist, spinning her around as she giggled. 

When he lowered her back to the ground, though, his eyes were on Arya. “What, pray tell, is the meaning of this?” he demanded, sweeping his hand at Arya and Dontos, still without pants. “This strange tableau almost defies explanation, but I would love to hear one, your Grace. Please justify the reasoning behind ten-year-old Lady Stark seemingly fighting a duel with an oaf who has his cock hanging out?”

A few titters spread through the crowd, but Joffrey didn’t laugh. “I’m the king,” he said coldly. “I do not have to explain myself to you, Imp. These two disobeyed and disrespected me and my authority, so I punished them as I saw fit.” 

“The girl was never going to be harmed,” the Hound said. “The king was teaching them a lesson.”

Tyrion snorted. “And a fine lesson it is. I think we’ve all learned quite enough for one day.” He left the pavilion and waddled over to Arya, sticking out a hand and helping her to her feet. She was a few inches taller than him. He patted her arm. “I’m deeply sorry for my nephew’s behavior, my lady,” he told her as she dusted off her skirts. “That was no way to treat a guest, hostage or not. I’ll see to it that it won’t happen again.” 

She nodded, then remembered her manners and curtsied. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. He spoke more kindly to her than most, but he was a Lannister all the same. She wasn’t like Sansa-- she would never make the mistake of trusting a lion, even a small one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter yay! I ended up copy&pasting the passage where Tyrion arrives cause like... rewriting it in my own words would just be unnecessary. Also I know I rushed things a bit in terms of pacing in that scene but oh well ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Some notes on Arya's situation: while Arya doesn't have Sansa's political/courtly gifts, she's not so dumb and hot-headed that she'd end up killed. Think of her time as Roose's cupbearer-- she knows how to behave herself out of survival instinct. Since she does have unpleasant history with Joff and Cersei, I do think she would be treated a bit worse, and also since she isn't playing her role as the dutiful bride-to-be. 
> 
> I hope to get the next chapter up soon! Thanks for reading!


	3. Sansa II

The first few days on the road did not prepare Sansa for the coming weeks. The blisters on her thighs and backside became raw sores from riding the donkeys without a saddle. She was hungry most days, and smelly too, a fine layer of grime settling over her skin. The constant wariness left her exhausted-- always on guard, the fear of being discovered made her so tense and jumpy she felt as though she would unravel at the slightest thing. Her ribs ached from the cloth she used to bind her small breasts completely flat. Almost every night she pressed a hand over her mouth as she lay in the dirt and shuddered as her body was racked with muffled sobs. She cried for her father, and for Arya, and for herself, and prayed she would see her mother again soon. 

At least she had-- well, not friends, but people who didn’t hate her. Gendry spoke to her pityingly, obviously feeling sorry for her, and while Lommy and Hot Pie weren't nice, they had stopped antagonizing her for the most part. They didn’t seemed to notice her suspicious behaviors-- never bathing, sneaking off into the trees to relieve herself. She wondered what the others thought of her-- the pale, soft boy with the pretty face who flinched at every noise in the woods. 

The comet that burned red and hot in the sky made her uneasy; the men named it the Red Sword, but that was no comfort-- a sword was sharp, and dangerous in the wrong hands. One night, she woke gasping in fear for a reason she could not name, and stared up at the Sword that shared the sky with hundreds of stars. The night had a strange quietness to it, a dark silence that crept between the chirping of crickets and Yoren’s snores. 

When the morning came, they all discovered that one of the men had died in the night, a sellsword named Praed whose rattling cough had been absent the night before. They stripped and buried him with a handful of acorns to mark his grave with an oak tree. The other men claimed his boots and armor and knives. Gendry was given Praed’s longsword, a proper weapon that he hefted easily in his muscled arms. 

That evening they stopped in a village at an ivy-covered inn. Yoren counted the coins in his purse and decided they had enough for a hot meal. “We’ll sleep outside, same as ever, but they got a bathhouse here, if any of you feels the need o’ hot water and a lick o’ soap.” 

Sansa did not dare, even though she smelled as bad as Yoren by now, with her unwashed clothes and skin grimy from the road. She was scared to even try to strip naked in front of the other boys, though she did have half a mind to sneak out to the baths at night to scrub herself down with some soap. Hot Pie and Gendry joined the line of men headed for the tubs. Others settled down in front of the bathhouse. The rest crowded into the common room. Yoren even sent Lommy out with tankards for the three men who were still chained in the back of their wagon. 

Washed and unwashed alike supped on hot pork pies and baked apples. The innkeeper gave them a round of beer on the house. “I had a brother took the black, years ago. Serving boy, clever, but one day he got seen filching pepper from m’lord’s table. He liked the taste of it, is all. Just a pinch o’ pepper, but Ser Malcolm was a hard man. You get pepper on the Wall?” When Yoren shook his head, the man sighed. “Shame. Lync loved that pepper.” 

Sansa listened to them talk, sitting hunched between Gendry and Yoren. She sipped at a mug of beer, wrinkling her nose at the taste. Her father sometimes let them have a cup of beer, she remembered. Arya had liked the taste well enough, but Sansa preferred wine. It made her sad to think of her father and sister, and she downed the rest of her beer in one swallow. 

Her ears perked up when she heard one man mention something about Starks. “The young lord’s come down, the dead Hand’s son . . .” Sansa’s head snapped up. Was he talking about Robb? 

“I heard the boy rides to battle on a wolf,” said a yellow-haired man with a tankard in his hand.   
“Fool’s talk.” Yoren spat. 

“The man I heard it from, he saw it himself. A wolf big as a horse, he swore.” 

“Robb,” Sansa gasped without thinking, head dulled by alcohol and voice incriminatingly high. Yoren gave her a sharp clout on the ear before she could say any more. Eyes watering, she rubbed at her ear sullenly and hunched over even further-- but not enough to escape the attention of a man wearing a green cloak, who leaned forward to scrutinize her. 

“Aye, Robb Stark... what would you know of him?”

“Nothing,” Yoren growled. “The boy’s mother was a whore in King’s Landing. Always had a head for gossip, especially when he’s drunk.” He shoved her shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the door. “Why don’t you go outside, Jory, check on the horses and clear your head.” 

Sansa stood wordlessly and hurried outside, glad for an excuse to leave before she made another slip and revealed herself. The night air was blissfully cool on her flushed cheeks, and she stood there for several minutes, eyes closed against the mild breeze.

“Boy,” a friendly voice called out, interrupting her reverie. “Lovely boy.” One of the men in irons was talking to her, the youngest one. Half his hair was red, the other white, and all of it was dirty and matted. Sansa hung back warily, not daring to approach. The prisoner lifted an empty tankard, his chains rattling, and tried again. “A man could use another taste of beer. A man has a thirst, wearing these heavy bracelets.” 

“He won’t talk to us,” sneered the hairy, noseless one. “He’s the whore from the city. Too good for the likes of us.” Sansa suppressed a shudder as she glanced at the black pit in the center of his face. The bald one opened his mouth and hissed like some immense white lizard. Sansa squeaked and jumped back as he opened his mouth wide and waggled his tongue at her, only it was more a stump than a tongue. 

“I-- I’ll tell Lommy to send more beer out!” Sansa stammered, frightened but not so scared that she forgot to lower her voice again. She turned on her heel and ran back towards the safety of the tavern, the men’s voices following her inside: the young man was still pleading, but the noseless one was jeering and shouting about awful things he’d do to her. Most involved the fact that Jory Waters was by all appearances a boy-whore, which was nothing she hadn’t heard from the other future black brothers-- the difference was, she could imagine that the noseless man meant every word. 

As she rounded the corner, she collided with Gendry, bouncing off the boy’s chest. Sansa leapt back and muttered an apology, still shaken. 

“What are you doing back here?” Gendry asked, furrowing his brow at the shouts still coming from the back of the wagon. “Were you talking to those three in chains? You know we aren’t supposed to.” He was talking to her like she was an idiot, or young. Sansa supposed she was, in fact, both of those things, but she still didn’t appreciate it. 

“I wasn’t talking to them,” she protested half-heartedly. “They were yelling at me.” He blinked at her, then sighed and began to lead her to the front of the inn.   
“You need to learn how to watch out for yourself,” he told her as they walked. “I don’t know how they did things in... where you grew up, but--”

“In the brothel?” Sansa said teasingly. “It’s where I come from, Gendry, you can say it. It won’t make me blush.” Once she started speaking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “I know I’m weak and soft and everyone laughs at me, but I’m not that stupid. You don’t need to treat me like a child.”

Gendry huffed out a laugh, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, sorry, you just always seem so shy and sheltered. I don’t mean to talk down to you.” He paused suddenly, looking at something behind her. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Gold cloaks.” His face closed up tight. 

Sansa whirled around to see them riding up the kingsroad, six in the black ringmail and golden cloaks of the City Watch. One was an officer; he wore a black enamel breastplate ornamented with four golden disks. They drew up in front of the inn. Panicked, Sansa grabbed Gendry’s arm and pulled him into a tall flowering hedge. 

“What is it?” he asked. “What are you doing? Let go.”

“They’re after me,” she whispered, fear rising up in her throat. “Just stay quiet, and-- I’ll explain later.” Exactly what she would explain, she didn't know. Gendry looked at her in disbelief; she would have to come up with a very solid lie to placate him. 

Some of Yoren’s other charges were sitting in front of the bathhouse, waiting their turn at a tub. “You men,” one of the gold cloaks shouted. “You the ones left to take the black?” 

“We might be,” came the cautious answer. 

“We’d rather join you boys,” old Reysen said. “We hear it’s cold on that Wall.” 

The gold cloak officer dismounted. “I have a warrant for a certain boy—” Yoren stepped out of the inn, fingering his tangled black beard. 

“Who is it wants this boy?” The other gold cloaks were dismounting to stand beside their horses. 

“Seriously, Jory, why would they want you?” Gendry whispered. His breath tickled her ear. 

“I said I’d tell you later!” she hissed. “Please, just be quiet!”

“The queen wants him, old man, not that it’s your concern,” the officer said, drawing a ribbon from his belt. “Here, Her Grace’s seal and warrant.” 

Behind the hedge, Gendry shook his head doubtfully, forehead wrinkled. “Why would the queen want you?” She ignored him, and he fell silent. 

Yoren fingered the warrant ribbon with its blob of golden wax. “Pretty.” He spit. “Thing is, the boy’s in the Night’s Watch now. What he done back in the city don’t mean piss-all.” 

“The queen’s not interested in your views, old man, and neither am I,” the officer said. “I’ll have the boy.” 

“You’ll have no one,” Yoren said stubbornly. “There’s laws on such things.” 

The gold cloak drew a shortsword. “Here’s your law.” 

Yoren looked at the blade. “That’s no law, just a sword. Happens I got one too.” 

The officer smiled. “Old fool. I have five men with me.” 

Yoren spat. “Happens I got thirty.” 

The gold cloak laughed. “This lot?” said a big lout with a broken nose. “Who’s first?” he shouted, showing his steel. 

Tarber plucked a pitchfork out of a bale of hay. “I am.” 

“No, I am,” called Cutjack, the plump stonemason, pulling his hammer off the leather apron he always wore. 

“Me.” Kurz came up off the ground with his skinning knife in hand. 

“Me and him.” Koss strung his longbow. “All of us,” said Reysen, snatching up the tall hardwood walking staff he carried. 

Dobber stepped naked out of the bathhouse with his clothes in a bundle, saw what was happening, and dropped everything but his dagger. “Is it a fight?” he asked. 

“I guess,” said Hot Pie, scrambling on all fours for a big rock to throw. Sansa couldn’t believe that all these people-- even Hot Pie!-- were willing to fight for her.

The one with the broken nose still thought it was funny. “You girls put away them rocks and sticks before you get spanked. None of you knows what end of a sword to hold.” 

In the few seconds it took him to glance around at the other men, Yoren slid towards him and pressed his sword to the apple of the officer’s throat. “You aren’t getting any of our boys, less you want me to see if your apple’s ripe yet. I got me ten, fifteen more brothers in that inn, if you still need convincing. I was you, I’d let loose of that gutcutter, spread my cheeks over that fat little horse, and gallop on back to the city.” He spat, and poked harder with the point of his sword. “Now.” The officer’s fingers uncurled. His sword fell in the dust. “We’ll just keep that,” Yoren said. “Good steel’s always needed on the Wall.” 

“As you say. For now. Men.” The gold cloaks sheathed and mounted up. “You’d best scamper up to that Wall of yours in a hurry, old man. The next time I catch you, I believe I’ll have your head to go with the bastard boy’s.” 

“Better men than you have tried.” Yoren slapped the rump of the officer’s horse with the flat of his sword and sent him reeling off down the kingsroad. His men followed. When they were out of sight, Hot Pie began to whoop, but Yoren looked angrier than ever. “Fool! You think he’s done with us? Next time he won’t prance up and hand me no damn ribbon. Get the rest out o’ them baths, we need to be moving. Ride all night, maybe we can stay ahead o’ them for a bit.” He scooped up the shortsword the officer had dropped. “Who wants this?” 

“Me!” Hot Pie yelled. Yoren handed the boy the sword, hilt first, and walked over to the bush where Sansa and Gendry were still huddled. 

“Quick thinking, lads. You’re lucky them gold cloaks aren’t nearly as sharp-eyed as me.” He turned to Gendry and raised one bushy eyebrow. “Queen wants you bad, boy.” 

Sansa frowned in confusion. “Him? But I thought...” 

Gendry snorted. “I told you they weren’t looking for you! You’re just a whoreson and a bastard!”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat with anger. “Well, you’re a bastard, too!” she retorted, but that got her thinking. He must be an important bastard, if the queen wanted him. She filed away that thought for later. For now, she was mostly relieved that the queen wasn’t on her trail. 

“Don’t see why no one wants neither o’ you,” Yoren said, “but they can’t have you regardless. You ride them two coursers. First sight of a gold cloak, make for the Wall like a dragon’s on your tail. The rest o’ us don’t mean spit to them.” 

“What about you?,” Sansa asked. “That man said he’d take your head.” 

“Well, as to that,” Yoren said, “if he can get it off my shoulders, he’s welcome to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to write this one! ;__; Summer's been pretty busy. I took in to account some critiques that I was giving Sansa too much credit, so hopefully I wrote her a bit more realistically. I didn't have her talk to Jaqen much because I felt like that would be out of character, considering how scared of the Hound she was at first. Also I can't imagine her going on to become a Faceless Man, but idk, I'll see where the story takes us. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think!


	4. Tyrion I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter (sorry!), and from a surprising POV! I wasn't sure if I wanted any other POVs besides the girls, but I wrote this as a warm-up and decided to post it because I love the dynamic between Tyrion and Cersei, and I wanted to explore what other characters thought of the situation. 
> 
> Don't worry! I'll have another Arya chapter up tomorrow!

“Cersei,” he said, giving her the widest grin he could manage. “Oh, my sweet sister. What in the seven hells are you going to do with the wrong Stark girl?” 

“Ransom her for Jaime, you fool. What else would I do?” Cersei’s mask of graciousness had been slipping all evening. Now, away from the feast, she tore it off completely. “No, don’t answer that. I suspect you have all sorts of schemes stewing around in that twisted little head of yours.”

Tyrion poured himself a glass of wine and toasted her gleefully. He was poking the lioness, he knew, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Let me just run over everything one more time,” he said, and drained his goblet. “You were so indiscreet in your brotherfucking that Stannis Baratheon, Jon Arryn and Ned Stark figured it out. Robert met a tragic and unpreventable end, leaving you as regent over a maniacal thirteen-year-old. You let Joffrey kill Stark, prompting his widow and son to raise their banners. You somehow lose one of the Stark girls-- the eldest one, your son’s betrothed, who was your key to the North--” 

“Enough!” Cersei shouted, and knocked the goblet from his hands. Wiping the wine from his face, Tyrion bit his cheek to keep from laughing. His sister took a shaky breath, visibly suppressing her rage, and stood. “As if you could have done any better. This city-- the court-- everything has fallen into chaos, and let’s not forget that you’ve been gone because you were kidnapped by Catelyn Stark.”

“And who were you kidnapped by, sister? Did Joffrey hold a knife to your throat and force you to relinquish all control?” Perhaps he was going too far-- Cersei’s face was still as glass, pale and tense. She could begin crying, or call for the guards to drag him away to the black cells. 

“Then what,” she said stiffly, sitting down again. “Would you propose I do?”

“So you lost Sansa Stark” he said, pouring himself a fresh helping of wine. “Good thing you have a spare. Betroth Arya to Joffrey, and--” 

Cersei gave a scornful laugh. “I’m not marrying Joffrey to that horse-faced northern brat.” She took Tyrion’s bottle of wine and drank directly from it, head thrown back to bare her pale throat. It hadn’t escaped Tyrion that Arya Stark’s messy dark hair and storm-gray eyes were the very picture of what Lyanna Stark was said to have looked like. It must have been a punch to the gut for his sister to be faced with the ghost of the girl her husband had never stopped loving. Strangely enough, Tyrion couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

"Even if you have goldcloaks scouring the city and countryside for Sansa Stark, it would be wise to keep a stronger hold on Arya. She's too young to be married anyway, and engagements can always be broken. It would be more symbolic than anything else."

"The girl is violent and stubborn. She attacked Joff, set a wolf on him and threw his sword into a river--"

"Is that why I came upon him today forcing her to fight a half-naked knight in front of an audience? Is that why her skinny arms are covered in bruises? Is your nine-year-old hostage being treated like a dog because of a childish grudge?"

"I won't hear this, Imp, not from you."

“Fine,” he told her. “Don’t listen to me-- I’m only the Hand of the king after all. Wait until father arrives, and listen to him tell you the exact same thing.” 

“You evil little demon!” Cersei spat as he turned to leave. The insult slid off his back like water, and didn’t make him flinch. He had been called far worse, and from her own mouth at that. She wouldn't be able to lose her composure the next time he brought up his plans in front of the small council. And if she did... well, Tyrion could use some entertainment.


	5. Arya II

To her surprise, that evening Arya was called down to dine with the rest of the court for Joffrey’s name day feast. It was rare for her to eat with anyone’s company but her own, though she had been made to attend a dinner or two in the past. Perhaps the Lannisters thought her sufficiently cowed by Joffrey’s earlier display, or perhaps Tyrion’s arrival changed things more than she had realized. 

Her maids helped her dress in a lavender gown that Arya thought would have suited Sansa better, and brushed out her hair till it shone. They even powdered away the bruises that her dress could not hide. It was the Hound who was sent to guide her down to the feast, and she walked beside him sullenly. She wanted to snap at him for killing Mycah, but her mouth had already gotten her in trouble once today, and she held her tongue. Her quietness seemed to amuse him. 

“You used to be a wolf of a girl, but now all I see is a mouse. A scared little mouse.” The Hound said suddenly, voice like steel being ground against stone. 

“I’m not a mouse!” Arya protested, shocked out of her silence. 

The Hound laughed, the burnt corner of his mouth twitching. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. It’s the best thing for you to be here. Quiet and unnoticed and docile. Don’t give them any reasons to hurt you. The only thing better than a mouse is a trained little bird who sings whatever songs they want to hear.”

What was that even supposed to mean? Arya furrowed her brows and glared at him, wishing her eyes could burn through the other half of his face. Noticing her gaze, he snorted.

“You’re not as pretty as your sister, and you’re worse behaved, too, but least you look at me. She was too scared of my face to look me in the eyes.” 

“What’s there to be scared of?” Arya said. “You’re just an ugly old dog.”

He growled and shoved her forward. “Watch your mouth, mouse, or I’ll fill it with my fist.” He wouldn’t really, Arya thought, though she was uncertain. He was the only one who never beat her, but that was because he was never ordered to. 

She needn’t have worried-- they spent the rest of their short walk in silence, until they passed through the doors to the great hall and the sounds of the feast washed over her. 

Arya was not seated at the high table, much to her relief. Instead, she sat between Lord Rosby, who coughed and hacked into her ear, and Ser Arys Oakheart, who wasn’t eating so much as making sure she didn’t do anything stupid. At one point, Rosby coughed so hard while chewing on a bite of food that his mouthful of roast potato flew from his lips and landed on Falyse Stokeworth’s plate. Arya giggled and instinctively sought someone else’s eyes, hoping to exchange a grin, but there was no Jon or Bran or even Sansa to laugh with. Suddenly overcome with loneliness, Arya dropped her gaze to her plate and pushed around her food, appetite gone.

When would the other shoe drop? Surely she was brought to the feast for some other reason than to simply attend without incident. Any minute now Joffrey would call her up to the high table and make the entire hall watch as the kingsguard beat her bloody over the plates of mutton and meat pies. Or perhaps he would announce that she was to be executed for daring to speak out against the crown. 

But between Cersei and Tyrion’s bickering, Joffrey’s nameday gifts, the singers and the fools, and the general chaos of the Imp’s mountain clan warriors, the thought of Arya seemed to have slipped most people’s minds. She sat there, nearly forgotten, to eat her dinner in relative peace, with only the dull throb of her old bruises to pain her. 

It was almost enough to lift her spirits. Almost. 

 

\--------

 

Several mornings later, she was woken by her maid, a black-haired girl around Jon’s age named Denna. “The Hand has extended an invitation to break your fast with him,” Denna told her, already standing to rifle through Arya’s wardrobe for a suitable dress. 

“The Hand?” Arya repeated sleepily. For a moment all she could think was Father wants to eat breakfast with me before reality’s hard truth struck her once more. How she wished her father was waiting for her in his chambers, gentle smile creasing his dark beard as he leaned in to kiss her forehead in greeting. 

“Aye, my lady, Lord Tyrion. He’s expecting you in an hour.” Arya kicked away her blanket and sat up, shivering as her bare feet hit the cold stone floor. What could Tyrion possibly want with her? Did he think she knew anything about Robb’s plans, or Sansa’s whereabouts? 

“Be a mouse,” she whispered to herself, remembering the Hound’s words. If the Lannisters thought she was a mouse, maybe they would forget she was a wolf. They would forget she had teeth.

 

The Imp had taken up residence in the Tower of the Hand, where Arya had been staying with her father and sister an achingly short time ago. Her eyes couldn’t stop snagging on all the little differences-- empty bottles of wine where there had been none before, more books stacked on tables and shelves and even the floor, a spilled pool of ink nobody had bothered to clean up. Tyrion had been living in her father’s old rooms for a scant few days, and already he had erased his presence. 

“Lady Arya,” the Imp greeted her with a shallow bow. Arya curtsied in response-- her curtsy was nearly flawless now, clumsy as she used to be. Water dancing and practice had made her graceful, and she was glad for it. “Please, have a seat. I hope you slept well.”

“I did, my lord. Thank you.” Last night she had lulled herself to slumber by repeating the names of those in King's Landing she hoped to kill one day, when she had Needle back and her brother's army beside her... but Tyrion didn't need to know that. She sat at the table-- even that was different, shorter-legged than usual, no doubt to accommodate the new Hand’s size. His personal guard, a dark-haired sellsword with a smile that reminded her of Theon Greyjoy, took up a position behind him, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. Arya fidgeted beneath Tyrion’s thoughtful gaze and twisted her hands together beneath the table. 

“Do you like lemon cakes?” he asked suddenly. 

“O-of course, my lord,” she said. In truth, she would have preferred anything else but lemon cakes in that moment. Still, she ate what was placed in front of her and drank the honeyed tea the servants poured her. 

“Thank you,” she said suddenly, remembering that she had never expressed gratitude for stepping between her and Joffrey several days earlier. “For what you did on the king’s nameday.”

Tyrion waved away her thanks. “It was nothing, my lady. Anyone with eyes could see that what my nephew was doing was cruel and out of line. Most held their tongues out of fear they would lose them, but if Joffrey is allowed to behave unchecked there’s no telling what he might do.”

“Ser Dontos... the knight I fought... what is to be done with him?” 

Tyrion grinned crookedly, and his sellsword guard snorted behind him. “Ser Dontos the Red,” the dwarf said, “Is very much alive, though he’s surely yearning for a cup of wine as he sits in his cell.” Tyrion raised a brow. “And his cell is considerably less comfortable than your own. That being said, I’m sure Joffrey will forget about him soon enough, and he’ll be released. Robert would have loved the spectacle he made, running naked after his horse. Would have laughed himself sick.”

Arya’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I’m glad to hear it, my lord,” she said. 

Tyrion's smile faded as he leaned forward, looking serious. “Arya, I am not going to drag this out longer than I must. Gods know your time here in King’s Landing has not been easy. The reason I called you here today was to inform you of your changing status.” He sighed and pushed back his nearly-untouched plate. “We mean for you to take your sister’s place as Joffrey’s betrothed.” 

The words hit her like an arrow to the chest. For several moments, all Arya could do was blink stupidly, mouth gaping like a fish. “Oh,” she finally managed to say. It was as if someone else-- Sansa, maybe-- was speaking for her. “I am... honored, my lord.” But her hands were shaking as she spoke, and even though she clenched them in her skirts, Tyrion noticed. Kinder than his sister, the Imp was smarter as well, and Arya misliked that. Shrewd and calculating as the queen was, nothing escaped her younger brother’s sharp gaze and quick mind. Arya felt as if he saw right through her as she stretched her lips into what must have been a horrifyingly false smile. 

“As the king’s intended, you will be given more freedom around the castle, and will be required to attend all dinners and other events. However, you will still be under constant guard and scrutiny-- I’ve heard your past behavior has been... unpredictable.” He paused and waited for her to respond, and sighed when she didn’t speak. “Very well. I’ll give you leave to return to your chambers and consider your new role,” Tyrion said, and nodded at the Hound, who all but lifted her from her seat and ushered her out of the room. “Oh, and Lady Arya?” he called before the door shut behind them. Arya looked back at him, golden and pitying and misshapen as he sat in the grand room meant for her father. 

“Yes, my lord?” she asked, voice still coming from far away. 

Tyrion pointed at his own grin. There was a touch of sadness on his face despite it. “I’d work on that fake smile if I were you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor little wolf in mouse's clothing :( She's trying her best. 
> 
> In GRRM's original outline for ASOIAF, Tyrion fell in love with Arya-- obviously I'm not going to have that happen, but I imagine that Tyrion would like her, much as he befriended Jon Snow, who shares similarities with Arya. 
> 
> No letters from Dontos because a. Arya doesn't have much freedom at this point, and b. he's not a fool, he's behind bars. Also I haven't decided whether or not Littlefinger would be as eager to help Arya who looks and acts nothing like Cat. As always, feedback appreciated!


End file.
